


Consequences of Adultery

by krispyscribbles



Series: Queen [6]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Other, Suicide, it's very brief and doesn't go into detail I promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-01-13 13:57:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18470362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krispyscribbles/pseuds/krispyscribbles
Summary: His smile turned cold, pointy canines revealed as a threat. Joe swallowed next to him, teeth gnashing against teeth as his brows furrowed. Roger almost stepped forward, but the look Brian had sent him said otherwise.“By the way, Brian May,” Warren spat out, a near-maniacal grin on his face. “My name is Warren.”Warren stood to his feet and wiped his mouth, wincing as his knee buckled slightly.Brian shook his head. “Your name is Quentin. Don't…Don't deny your mother of her only son's name.”Even as he spoke, his voice shook with uncertainty. Warren smiled, past anxiety swallowed like the bile that threatened to choke him. He looked at Joe, whose eyebrows were pinched and lips pressed to a line. Then, he looked down at the trash can, which reeked of vomit.“Sorry for that, Joey. I'll make sure to Venmo you some money.” Warren smiled, icy cold and tight-lipped. Joe nodded, biting his lip. Warren looked up and the smile dropped off of his face. “Now, Dr. May, why don't we talk and talk?”A shiver shot down Joe's spine, but he didn't say a word.Brian looked positively ill.Illegitimate child AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is an accumulation of a fic that I wrote in my spare time while I was on holiday. It's a bit patchy, but I'll go back in and edit parts.

Warren never knew of conventional family life. No, scratch that; Warren never knew of conventional life.

He'd been born a bastard; killed his mother and broke his grandparents’ hearts. He knew that his father had had an affair with his mother, only to cower from them when she needed him most. The newspapers he'd found at three years old told him so.

His mother had died fulfilling his father's wish, only holding him for a scant few minutes before death knocked on her door. They had promised to care for him if the worst happened, and it did. He was a burden upon his grandparents before he even had fingerprints.

He wouldn’t know that - not as a baby, not as a boy, but as a man. Warren's real name was loaded with connotation and expectation, but he didn't hate it. It was the last gift his mother had ever given him. Even if it was lengthy, he treasured every letter - even his father's name, even if it took him longer to accept it. That didn't stop him from thinking the way he did; he knew he was a mistake from the moment he could walk, having it drilled into his head by his uncaring aunts and being told so by his cousins, who were jealous of the amount of attention he would get from their grandparents.

( _"You know, you're only special because your parents didn't love you enough to stay," Keith had hissed at him during Christmas dinner._

 _T_ _he entire Trentham clan had stayed overnight for Christmas season, if only to open gifts with one another come morning._

_Naturally, little Quentin didn't quite understand Christmas, but his family had decided to impart a strong sense of Christmas festivity by showering him with gifts. It had ended up with gifts of all shapes and sizes to be labeled as Quentin's. That had, of course, lead to his cousins becoming jealous - especially Keith, who was especially close to his bitter mother._

_"Your parents hated you."_

_Quentin's breath shuddered and he resisted the urge to swing at his cousin, who smugly smiled at the then three-year-old's tears. He didn't want his grandpapa to get mad at him, but it was hard when Keith looked at him like he knew all the answers to the universe._

_"That's not true!" Quentin hissed, kicking Keith with a soft foot. Keith scowled and pushed his shoulder roughly, turning backward to spit acid before running off to his mother._

_"No one will ever love you!")_

 

 

Despite his lineage, his grandparents fought for a normal childhood for their daughter’s son.

He spent the first four years doing everything any other kid would do. He played with cars, cards, board games and art-kits, but there was always a guilt that loomed underneath his skin; even if he had killed his mother, his grandparents still loved him. It was just hard to love himself. They'd told him countless times that he was loved, but sometimes that wasn't enough - he'd cry for a mother who had died bringing him into the world, he'd beg for a father who could escape his cowardice and accept his responsibility as a father to a child, illegitimate or otherwise. 

 

His grandfather was an accountant, a veteran, a Scrabble enthusiast and the role model Warren deserved. His grandmother was an ex-nurse, car mechanic, knitting nutter and the woman who gave him the rose-tinted glasses he'd slip on when things were getting really bad during his service. She spent her time nurturing him and giving him the tender heart he deserved to have. Everything Warren knew up until age four was pure, untouched and unadulterated.

 

His cousins, uncles, and aunts always fawned over him. Bernard and Arthur liked to bring Grace, Louis, Keith and Elise over and not once had Warren doubted that he loved them and they loved him. Even Elise, who had once smacked a handful of mud on his overalls during a game of tag, would press child-sweet kisses to his cheek and pressed flowers into his hands. They were the most explosive duo of the bunch; they loved each other, but she was so calloused from a divorced household that she couldn’t contain herself and often acted out in some fucked up way of affection. ( _He’d later realise that she was his Roger, and he wouldn’t know whether to laugh or to cry._ )

 

His little bubble of love was broken by him being flown off to a boarding school a month after his fourth birthday by his grandmother; it was an unpopular decision, but no one would mess with Willow Armitage even if they had the biggest pair of balls on them.

 

Even Walter, her husband, had protested, but her mind was set. She drove him to King’s Cross,  tenderly kissed his forehead and carefully fixed his hair, straightening the lapels of his little jacket. As if she could fix appearance enough to fix his breaking heart.

 

The two of them stood at the platform, two heavy suitcases with them. He wasn't aware of the magnitude of his departure, but that came with only being alive for four years. A wonderful naivety that could only be shaken by the hardest of situations.

 

Willow caressed his cheek and bent down gently, wincing at the sharp pain in her hip.

 

“Come with me, Ma?” he had asked, back when he was _Quentin Brian Walter May_. A different boy, undoubtedly a part of him, but not. Later, he'd embrace a new identity. But for now, he would be little Quentin May, wholly unaware of the burdens that would weigh him down until he learned to stand tall on his own.

 

His grandmother smiled sadly and looked at the clock, biting her lip.

 

Time was running out.

 

“No, baby boy. You're gonna go on your own adventure,” Willow whispered, pressing one last kiss to his forehead. She stood straight. She knew what she had to do, but that didn't make it hurt any less.

 

Her throat constricted at his heartbroken expression but she closed her eyes and let the feeling pass. She had to embrace this progression in his life and hers’, and crying in front of him was not the way to go about doing things.  

 

She touched his face for the last time and left the little boy next to the train, swallowing her tears. Willow shuffled to her car and began to sob behind the wheel. Before she could even think of coddling him, Willow drove away from Quentin, glancing back at the little blond boy from her rearview mirror before focusing on the road ahead of her.

 

The little boy she had left behind stood dumbly with his two suitcases, big green eyes shielded by his curls. His warwick glasses balanced precariously on his nose, only to be stubbornly shoved up to his nose. A determination set into his bones, unshakable even in the face of difficulty. He stomped into his own carriage, rucksack engulfing him.

 

The boy became a little colder as the train pulled out of King's Cross Station as if he could guard his heart with a twisted little frown oh-so-similar to his father's. The tender heart that had been nurtured was stabbed with reckless abandon, and Quentin dreamed of a day that enough scar tissue could be built around his heart like a cage.

 

X

 

“You know, you look a lot like Brian May.”

 

Joe Mazzello took a hearty bite out of his sandwich, grinning at his best friend and unofficial personal chef. Warren glowered at him behind his ever slightly skewed glasses, movements of his knife quick and measured.

 

Joe liked to call himself endearing, but Warren liked to call him a pain in the ass. Sometimes Joe could get on his nerves. Most times he couldn't stand to be away from him.

 

Right now, he was a smug little shit.

 

“And you look like President Obama,” he quipped dryly, blond curls blown away from his face. Joe snorted and coughed, automatically accepting the glass of water from Warren.

 

They lived together; had done so since The Pacific, where Joe and Warren met. They'd become quite fond of one another, given that Warren was in the Royal Marine Corps at the time and had heard the name Eugene Sledge countless times during his service:  Joe was playing the man himself.

 

Warren was one of the personal trainers, having the perfect soldier attitude that came only from experience. Joe had found him fascinating and wouldn't stop pestering poor Warren until he cracked.

 

( _What, Mazzello?” Warren barked, glare haughty and piercing._

 

_Unlike the other actors, Joe grinned widely and poked ‘The Bear’, skittering away when Warren took a menacing step forward._

 

_“What's your least favorite color, Renny?” Joe asked._

 

_Warren rolled his eyes, praying to the Lord that his patience wouldn't wane. “Lime green. Anything else, Mazzello?”_

 

_Rami stuck his head through the door, grinning mischievously. That was never a good thing, as Warren had learned._

 

_“He wants to know how big your cock is, Soldier,” Rami announced, running like a mad man when Joe chased him._

 

_Warren could feel his eyes strain from how often he rolled his eyes, but he didn't care. The two of them were the worst troublemakers onset, but if it made being soldiers easier, then Warren would answer as many questions Joe could fire at him.)_

 

Now six years after The Pacific, Joe and Warren were still close. Warren was honorably discharged in 2016 after an injury that lead to him having a titanium shoulder and Joe was about to embark on a life-changing role that was like a second Jurassic Park. They lived together in a homey apartment in New York, amongst the thicket of activity.

 

Things were going well.

 

“I'm not joking, Cully. You look a lot like the old man.” Joe chuckled when the glare he received was murderous. A part of him was taking the piss out of Warren, but he did believe that Ren was a lot like the man.

 

Whether it be the nose or their spindly limbs, Joe knew he didn't stand a chance at being John Deacon reincarnate. Especially when Ren was looking like Brian May without even trying.

 

“Whatever you say, Joey. Say, would you like me to make you some ravioli for dinner? I'm milking this sick leave for as long as possible.” Warren grinned with those pointy canines of his. He was trying to divert the attention from the conversation.

 

“That'd be good, _Bri_.”

 

Joe squawked when Ren smacked him on the head with a handful of flour.

 

X

 

It was natural for Quentin to wield a knife.

 

He may have been called a  _pansy_  or  _fag_ for adoring Rosie and Ursula’s cooking skills, but he didn't care. The years he spent in school were brightened with his late evenings helping Rosie, the young kitchen hand, peel potatoes or stirring pots for Ursula, but he didn't wield a knife until he was eight.

 

He spent our long years spent watching them wield that tool, making it dance with a precision that only came with experience. Every time he'd reach for it, Ursula would smack his hand with a tea towel, tutting.

 

"Not until you're eight, Bear," she hummed, moving the knife away from the edge of the table. She went on with her business, smiling as Quentin huffed and walked out of the kitchen, only pausing to stir a simmering pot. He scampered out of the kitchen and back to his room, prepared to complain to Ezra for the umpteenth time about how he wanted to touch a knife handle. 

 

Then, the thirteenth of October rolled around. His eighth birthday came, and he spent the morning cooking. 

 

Ursula had handed him the big chef's knife, newly sharpened and every bit as perfect as the food she cooked. By then, Quentin was expressing a sudden growth spurt ( _he would later attribute it to his father's height_ ). He was tall enough to only need a step stool rather than the ladder. 

 

“Quentin,” Ursula started, smiling at his piercing gaze.

 

Quentin like how she said his name - she never pronounced the t in his name, so it always sounded like “Kwen-in”. Later, he'd become Kenny to Ursula, as he'd learned that she found it hard to say his name.

 

“When you hold a knife, it should be an extension of your expression.” She held the knife in her hand, standing behind Quentin to show him how she wrapped her fingers around the handle. “It should be a physical reaction to creating the food. Because when you cook, you never cook with malice. It leads to a bitter aftertaste, even if you cook with the best ingredients you can find.”

 

Quentin nodded softly and she smiled.

 

“You give direction to your tool, not the other way around. It is as precise as you are, so you must have a firm hand. Do you understand?”

 

“I understand, Ursula.”

 

Ursula Donohugh was not a woman easily pleased. She raised her two children, Alexis and Irvine, by herself, and worked around the clock to ensure that the 2000 boys she cooked for had the proper nutrition to study.

 

But seeing this little boy, barely up to her clavicle, look up to her as though she were the Lord and Savior made her proud. Of herself, her hardship, and him. Being a chef was a hardly rewarding job, but seeing her progeny eagerly lap up information renewed her determination to serve others as best as she could.

 

They spent the next evening chopping carrots, onions, garlic, and other fillings. When Quentin’s shaky movements became more confident, Ursula made the puff pastry and got the chicken prepared. Occasionally, she'd pause and correct him, but she never had to give him a bandage.

 

The chicken pot pie was a hit.

 

It was so satisfying to see the 2000 students indulge in his food, but no one understood his obsession except Ezra Christopher. His first best friend, who stayed at his side since age six. They'd seen the horrid, the beautiful and everything in between together. Quentin loved him in every way except the _one_ , and maybe that was for the best.

 

Both of them would call each other the loves of their lives. Their souls were entwined with one another, their movements in sync and so beautiful that they were the embodiments of glass statues. Quentin loved Ezra for all his faults; snoring, hogging the blanket. Even leaving socks everywhere in their shared dorm. Ezra loved Quentin for his honesty and his ability to be so open with another person, even when it hurt him to do so. He also loved to twirl one of Quentin's curls in his fingers when they sat together in the library, worming their way up the tower and sitting underneath the stars with thick books on their laps. 

But by God, Ezra was helpless in the kitchen.

 

“Jesus Christ, Ez!” Quentin huffed, wrapping around Ezra’s smaller frame. They were both ten years old at this point; tall enough to not need a stool, but too young to know exactly why they couldn't cling onto one another as they had before. 

 

Ezra looked at him from his crazy straight hair, which stubbornly stood up as though he had been electrocuted. Quentin gently wiped Ezra’s cheek and smiled, knowing that he'd have to force Ezra to shower.

 

( _“Why, Tinny?” Ezra would whine. Quentin would roll his eyes and shove the towel into Ezra’s hands._

 

_“Because you somehow got soup in your hair, mein Schatz. God knows how, but you did.”_

_Quentin would smile slightly and push Ezra into the bathroom, whistling as he cleaned their shared room. No one wanted to share with them, but not because they couldn't handle how close the two of them were._ _They couldn't stand Ezra’s screams of terror when night fell._

 

_Quentin could. That was why they got their own room; the principal had gotten sick of dorm mates complaining about Ezra screaming at night, so he managed to get the both of them a room that was a little further away from the other rooms._

 

_“I'll make you pay, Quentin Brian Walter May!” Ezra would shriek, making Quentin roll his eyes._

 

 _“Sure you will, mein Schatz.”_ )

 

Quentin gently guided the wooden spoon through the stew, murmuring into Ezra’s ear as to how to do it gently.

 

When he turned around to get a spoon, he couldn't hear Ezra’s little heart pounding away for him. It was Ezra’s darkest secret, the only card that he'd keep close to his chest until his dying breath.

 

God, was Ezra Christopher in love with Quentin May.

 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Is that what you want, Bri? To have them take space in the world, with no father to guide them?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School is pretty busy right now but I really wanted to get a new chapter out.
> 
> Trigger warning for mentions of suicide and other death. (will update tags asap).

Warren May had a lot of nicknames; Ren, Wario, Remy, Cully; even Renny, which he loathed. One that would forever anger him would be _Mini Bri_. Ever since Joe got the role as John Deacon in the upcoming Queen biopic, Warren had to suffer with the new nickname. It was rather irritating, especially when his brows would furrow and the corners of his mouth would pinch in concentration. Apparently it was similar to what Brian May would do, but Warren saw no resemblance.

Then again, Joe had once said to him that, "You wouldn't be able to see a hundred bucks if it was dangling right in front of you!"

Maybe he had a point.

On top of being called _Mini Bri,_ Joe had been begging Warren to come onto the set of Bohemian Rhapsody as though it were his dying wish. Warren would always deny the opportunity, saying that _De Martigoza_ needed him - and it did.

Warren opened his own restaurant in New York with whatever he could get as compensation from his army service. After six months of culinary training following his January discharge, Warren established his business as a high end Italian restaurant. Now steady into its second year, _De Martigoza_ was flourishing. Joe loved it. The rent was expensive, the ingredients were expensive. Hell, the twenty employees he had were hard to care for. But every night, when Warren stood at the front of the kitchen, he felt on top of the world. That was what made him love being a chef. There were ups and downs - God knows how many tears he'd shed, papers he'd ripped and the number of times he'd been threatened with bankruptcy.

Warren knew to lean on Joe, but sometimes he was scared that Joe would slip out from under him. He never did. Maybe that was why he owed Joe a legitimate reason to avoid going on set.

“Come on, _Mini Bri_! Come with me,” Joe whined, tugging on his arm.

Warren set down his knife and sighed, exasperated. Sometimes it was hard to love Joe Mazzello, especially when he was being as stubborn as a mule.

“Why should I come with you, Deacy?” Warren teased.

He knew that Joe could play a convincing Queen bassist, but it was always fun to tease him. Joe wasn't phased; in fact, he was emboldened by the nickname that didn't belong to him.

“Because you can meet your maker, Bri.” Joe chuckled heartily and Warren nudged him with a knobbly elbow.

Joe flinched; it wasn't that he was scared of Warren, but he was half expecting Warren to explode and possibly stab him with his beloved knife. Joe liked to say that he was an tsunami; sudden and violent but so beautiful that people couldn't help but want to get closer, even if it would kill them.

Warren understood the analogy, but his exes, commanders and fellow workmates liked to add that his personality was as volatile as Hell’s most violent inferno. To Joe, he would forever be the cuddly, spindly boy that made chicken pot pie when Joe felt particularly sad. But to those who dared to betray him, Warren was a looming ghost, vengeful and haunting every waking moment.

That wasn't to say he was always awful to his peers or that he was a puddle at Joe's feet. Lord knew how many times he'd simply glared at Joe until the words died at the Yankee's lips, or the number of times his workmates had damn near pissed themselves laughing at his jokes. Warren's spontaneity made him a complex person, but it was always pleasant to surprise the soul brother he'd never had.

Warren picked up his wine glass by the stem, swirling the Sauvignon Blanc before taking a tentative sip. "Well, I don't think I'll be able to meet my maker, per se, but I will come with you."

“Wait, really?” Joe sputtered, choking on the bit of carrot he'd stolen from Warren's chopping board.

“Yeah, really. Just wanted to surprise you, ‘cause I've got a couple weeks of leave scheduled. Roman has it sorted.”

Warren shrugged and almost picked up his knife. It wasn't that big of a deal, was it? He'd done plenty for his best friend, even if it meant taking time out of his hectic schedule and be the support Joe deserved. However, when Joe stopped him with a hug, damn well near crushing the blond with his toned arms, Warren knew his visit was so much more than just support.

“Thank you, Remy. You don't know how much it means to me,” Joe whispered, a cheeky grin muted by his watery eyes. Warren hugged Joe back and nudged him to the barstool, going back to the bench.

“Anything for you, Joey.”

X

Brian looked down at his 5'1” spitfire mistress, swallowing his fear.

They were standing in a hotel in Versailles, off on their last excursion before she left for good.

He had made a mistake in impregnating her, but he knew he was right about loving her. God, how he loved Felicity Trentham.

Even when he was practically cowering at her glower, he knew that he still loved her. The problem was he loved far too much; Anita _and_ Chrissie were waiting at their homes, waiting for their man. A part of him knew that they knew, but he wanted this little fantasy to last a little longer.

“God, Brian. I cannot believe that you didn't tell me you had another woman! Anita nonetheless! I'll never be able to make eye contact with her again,” she spat, cheeks flushed a dark pink.

It took everything in Brian not to cradle her face in his hands. Felicity ranted and raved at him, harsh words rolling off her tongue as though it were second nature. Brian was focused on her midsection, brows furrowed as he tried to quantify what she had announced, even if it was dripping with poison.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Felicity hissed, fury unbridled in her green eyes.

He hoped that his child would have her eyes, vibrant and evergreen, and not his ruddy hazel ones. It hit him then.

He was going to be a dad to his and Felicity's child.

His eyes watered at the prospect, even though he was aware of the truth. He knew that he wouldn't be a part of his child's life, but he prayed that his little one would at least know of him. He blinked back his tears, making eye contact with her for the first time that night. She was stunning; her dark red hair framed her angular jawline, vibrant eyes flecked with intensity that made Brian's knees weaken. She was shapely but not overtly so; she complimented his slight frame in a way that was completely different from Chrissie or Anita. 

Maybe, in another universe, they could have raised their child together and experienced life. But the universe was a cruel force. He would never be involved in their life, but at least he'd have another little thing to pour his everlasting love into.

Brian's throat felt dry, but he gathered his courage and cleared his throat. “Keep it. Please."

Brian blushed when she looked at him as if he'd grown another head, but he managed to stammer an answer.

“I'll stay away if you want. Just - please don't get rid of them.” _I love them already_.

But wasn't that the issue? He loved far too much and far too quickly. That was why he was sitting in a hotel in France instead of with his wife and two kids or with his second scarlet woman. But, for some reason, his infidelity didn't distress him. He was so caught up in his little world, creating little families that would tear each other apart once the truth came up, that he couldn't bear to put too much thought into what could happen. Call him a coward, but the prospect of losing one of his many loves, even though they had just been conceived a few weeks ago, terrified him.

“Is that what you want, Bri? To have them take space in the world, with no father to guide them?”

Felicity's voice was sickeningly sweet. He wasn't really focusing on her words; he was transfixed at the slight swell of her stomach, brain whirring as he came to the realization that new life was being formed as he _breathed_.

“I trust that you will care for them emotionally. I can give you as much as you need, within good reason,” Brian said mechanically, transfixed at the concept of a perfect little baby in his arms. Despite how impossible it sounded, it brought Brian solace. God knew he needed it, especially in a life like his.

“Fine. If that's what you want, fine. Just - get out. I'll call you, but I need to be alone.” Felicity whipped around and stood out on the balcony, barefoot. Brian stood quickly, but not to leave; he walked towards her, not a moment of hesitation present. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nestled his hands over her growing bump, inhaling her scent one last time. She started crying, leaning back onto his chest. He kissed her forehead and laid his cheek against the crown of her head. Both were mourning what could have been before it ever really happened.

“Why now, Brian? _Why_?”

He stayed silent.

X

When things got particularly rough during his service, Warren liked to pull out the worn photo from his lapel.

It was nestled in the pages of The New Testament, which rested over his heart. He would delicately pluck it from its leather-bound grasp, smiling at the familiar face that would never fail to greet him back.

Ezra Christopher stared back at him.

Painfully thin Ezra, whose smile warmed his heart as though it were effortless. The scar tissue that had built up over the years melted away when he saw that familiar face, cheeky smile making his crow's feet appear and dimples to show themselves. Warren could almost feel his warm skin beneath his calloused fingertips if he closed his eyes, which he often did.

He knew he was fighting for Britain, but he was also fighting for the boy who had held his heart as though it were an irreplaceable gem: the boy who had insisted on trying to make a birthday cake at boarding school, only to be helped by Ursula and Rosie when he asked, "Is this sugar or salt?": the boy who had cuddled close to him to reassure Warren when he learned of his disappointing lineage and _why_ he was called Quentin: the boy who accepted Warren Armitage as his best friend in place of Quentin May.

The boy who had killed himself at eighteen when his Daddy beat him ‘til he was black and blue and he was finally sick of living.

God, Warren still loved him. Missed him terribly, but loved him more. He'd never forget the slightly whiskery kisses Ezra pressed against his cheek as he boarded his train, nor would he forget the crushing hug that he didn't know would be his last for a long time.

At night, when Warren was sure he was alone, he stared up at Sirius B; his and Ezra’s star. Dimmer, but still as important as its counterpart. (Later, he and Joe would take Sirius A without even thinking about it.)

“I miss you, mein Schatz. I wish you could come home,” Warren would whisper, knowing no one would reply. His fingers toyed with the necklace, fingers finally looping around the ring that dangled from a silver chain. Said was promised to Warren for his twenty first birthday; a Christopher family heirloom dating back to 1763. It had been forged by hand, destined to fall upon the beloved's hand. 

Mrs. Elaine Christopher had given it to him for Christmas in 2007, wrapped up with a pretty bow and with a little note that Ezra had written before he killed himself stuck to the top.

It hung around his neck, symbolic of its owner’s suffering but also how Quentin May was forever chained to Ezra Christopher until his dying breath.

X

 _I_ _know you told me to be strong, but I can't. I'm sorry, Warren._

_Please forgive me and wear this ring with pride. It can wait far longer than I can._

_Ezra._

“I love you. Forever.”

Ezra kissed the little note, setting the ring box and the note aside, turning to the loaded pistol that sat on his desk. His hands shook as he wrapped his fingers around the gun, but he knew that there was no more time for him. Still, he swallowed his nerves and lifted the gun off the table.

A deafening bang filled the silence.

X

Joe smirked when Warren damn near swaggered off the plane, dark pinstripe suit and honey blond curls marking him an easily visible target.

They'd been flying for the better part of a day, even two, but Warren insisted on wearing the suit that made him look taller than he already was.

“Comfy flight?” Joe teased, fixing his crappy baseball shirt. It was the one that had seen the wrath of an Armitage food fight, the one that he'd gotten paint on while repainting his office, and, most importantly, the shirt that Warren hated with a burning passion.

Warren smirked and stretched, his suitcase sitting smartly at his side. He didn't like to buy things often, but when he did, they were of the best quality. Joe envied him sometimes.

“Pretty good, considering the girl next to me thought I was a comfy pillow,” Warren grinned.

The girl, a bleach blonde lady (bimbo) with breasts far too large to be natural, had practically leaned on him the entire flight. He didn't particularly care, but he found it amusing when he glared at her and rolled his shoulder when they made eye contact at Heathrow. She blushed profusely and almost stuttered an apology, but he turned around to collect his suitcase, smirking when his back was to her.

Girls were strange beings, but he loved them nonetheless.

Joe seemed to be having a field day at the image, laughing so hard that he almost missed his suitcase. Luckily, Warren lunged for it and snagged it off the track. He took the moment to smile softly at Joe, who was giggling, guiding the both of them to the main terminal.

The girl blushed when she saw Warren followed by Joe, almost waving at Warren to apologize. Neither of them paid attention, opting to pick up some crappy airport coffee and chat. They sipped at it, noting that it was far too bitter.

“Who's our ride?” Warren asked, leaning on one foot. He took his last few mouthfuls, shuddering. Joe whipped out his phone and cursed, tapping at it frivolously.

“Uh, some dude named Roger, I suppose. Must be an important fellow, since he's riding an Audi.” Joe shrugged and wandered out, holding his phone and coffee in one hand as he dragged his suitcase along. He obviously knew who it was if he was rushing ahead and not strolling next to his best friend, so Warren rolled his eyes and followed Joe, scanning the car park for a particularly expensive Audi.

He'd nearly gotten lost, but thankfully Joe shouted at him at the right time.

“Oi! He's over here!” Joe called out. Warren quickly followed the sound of Joe's voice, ending up in front of a grinning Yankee and an irritable old man, the latter of whom happened to be the drummer of Queen.

“Roger Taylor, nice to meet you. Now get your suitcase in the back before I throw it out,” Roger said, shaking his hand. Despite his brash tone, Roger had a friendly grin on his face, so Warren smiled as well.

Warren froze when he saw those eyebrows raise and head tilt upward, as if not expecting what he was seeing.

“Yes sir. The name's Warren Armitage,” Warren said firmly, letting go of Roger's hand and putting his luggage in the rear before closing the trunk and sitting in the back with Joe. Joe was buzzing with excitement, prepared to run his mouth off, but Warren's chest was heavy with burden.

He knew that Roger knew.

X

Felicity Trentham stared down at her bump, thanking herself for giving into Brian's word. 

She was due within the next week and she couldn't be anymore excited. Despite the circumstances, her mother and father were supportive of her carrying the baby to term. For the last few months, she'd grown excited at the prospect of raising her little boy: besides the fact that he was a mixture of herself and Brian, she was looking forward to love and care for her child and watch him grow up and be his own man.

“Oh, he's going to be a looker!” her mother, Willow Armitage, had cooed.

There were plenty of hand knitted blankets, quilts, beanies and mittens ready for the newest little one in their tiny family. It was a tradition; her mother's mother had done the same for her, and her mother was determined to do the same.

“As long as he’s a good one, I'm happy,” Walter Trentham, her father, had gruffly said.

She knew better than that; he was brushing up on Scrabble and chess, eager to teach his grandson his favorite games. He'd allegedly done the same for when her older brothers were born - no wonder they were ridiculously good at Scrabble. Felicity smiled at the image of her father and her son playing together, her mother watching and taking photographs for  _Quentin_ _'s_ album.

But first, the damn baby had to be born.

She'd experienced the typical pregnancy - morning sickness, cravings, swollen ankles. She'd done it all her damn self, even when the baby kicked so damn hard that it felt like her insides were being pushed to her throat, but she would still honor Brian.

God, she loved Brian Harold May. Enough to carry their baby to term, even if feeling him kick was absolute hell. Enough to resist calling him for the sake of his marriage. Enough to name her first (and only) son _Quentin Brian Walter May_.

Quentin for the band that had brought both of them so much joy.

Brian for the man who she loved unconditionally, even if he couldn't love her in the same way.

Walter for her father, whose only desire was to see his family prosper.

And May, because Armitage -Trentham sounded ridiculous with the sheer number of names she had given her son.

Sometimes she wished Brian was with her, just to hold her one more time. Or maybe to caress the bump she had grown to love. She could imagine him kissing her cheek, whispering in her ear about all the wonderful things parenthood entailed. Sometimes she had to force herself to walk away from the phone and not call the May household, even if it meant she cried because it _wasn't fucking fair_.

Felicity sat on her bed, facing the mirror of her vanity, thinking of anything but Brian because she knew if she thought too much about him, she'd start crying and  _God_ , she was so sick of crying and-

“You're going to be a handsome little boy, huh Quentin?” she whispered, rubbing her skin. She knew looked ridiculous - 5'1” and so pregnant that it was difficult to stand, let alone walk. But she wouldn't trade it for the world.

Later, when he'd come on his perfect day (which coincided with John Deacon's, funnily enough), she would caress his blond curls, which she knew would become untamable in later years, and cry. He'd fought his way out of her womb, but at what cost?

She was bleeding far too much to continue on, even when she had given birth in 1986. The doctors had said that  _not_ _enough blood available for the damage caused, surgery would be an impossibility given that she wasn't likely to survive._  

Still, they honored her wish and let her cradle her son, knowing that they were hopeless to the inevitable. Her baby boy wailed in her arms, and she couldn't do anything except weep with him. She was too weak to even wipe her own tears.

“My sunshine, don't cry,” she whispered, pressing the first and last kiss upon his blond crown.

Her little prince hadn't even opened her eyes when she had moved on to the next life.

 

X

 

Sometimes Warren hoped that his mother would love Ezra like her own son in the afterlife.

 

X

 

_Dear Daddy,_

_Today is my sixth birthday. Happy birthday to me! Ezra and Ursula made me a Black forest cake. I think it's the best thing he's made. How are you? I know today is my birthday, but I have a little gift to go with my letter. It’s a bear that Ms. Kelly and I made for you! I don't know when your birthday is, but hopefully you like it!_

_Love, Quentin._

**Author's Note:**

> krispy-posts.tumblr.com


End file.
